


By the Light of the Moon

by TheTiniestTortoise



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Gun Violence, Horses, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Rape, Sappy Sex, Smut, Vaginal Sex, mild physical violence, stealing a horse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2020-12-13 18:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21001895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTiniestTortoise/pseuds/TheTiniestTortoise
Summary: You and Arthur celebrate after a successful job. He won't stop prodding you about your personal life, so finally you break down and admit that you're sweet on him.Sort of continuing series, maybe?





	1. Part I

“You know, that fella in there at the bar was makin’ some real serious puppy dog eyes at you all night,” Arthur drawls as you both exit the saloon. He is a gentleman, as always, holding the door open for you to pass through first.

You chuckle, glancing back at him over your shoulder coyly. “I know.”

“He was kinda good lookin’.”

That makes you cock an eyebrow. You stop once you hit the street, turning around to face him with a shit-eating smirk gracing your whiskey-flushed face. “That so?”

He shrugs as he makes his way down the stairs after you, the doors swinging shut behind him. “Just sayin’. I know we come in together, but that don’t mean we gotta leave like that.” 

You cross your arms, eyeing him up and down, swaying slightly in the breeze. “We came here to _celebrate._ We got a good haul today, Arthur. Hell, we didn’t even have to shoot nobody! You ‘n me, we make a pretty good team.”

Arthur chuckles in that husky way he has and stuffs his hands in his pockets as he approaches you. He shrugs his shoulders again as he looks down and kicks a loose rock across the dusty road with the toe of one boot. “Can’t say it don’t help havin’ a pretty face along.”

“Pfft. S’that all I am? _A pretty face?”_ You turn away from him then to saunter off toward where you’d left his horse, partly hoping he doesn’t see the full blush creeping up your cheeks. You’d both rode in on her, agreeing it was best to have one getaway mount for the particular robbery you’d staged that day.

He blinks, mouth falling open before he realizes what an ass he sounds like and stumbles down the road after you. “C’mon, you know what I mean! Just…just tends to make things easier, you know? You’re a hell of a lot more’n that.”

You smirk again, bowing your head as you come up on the row of hitching posts that line the road. There are a few other horses tethered there beside Arthur’s mare, swishing their tails and nickering at each other softly.

You look up and a beautiful Hungarian Halfbred catches your eye. You sidestep Arthur’s dapple gray, slinking in between the animals to come up alongside the sleek Halfbred, smoothing a palm up its shoulder and onto its neck. “I mean, that job _was_ my idea,” you quip back, glancing at Arthur over the back of his horse.

Arthur stops on the other side of his dapple from where you are, spreads his hands at his sides and glances up from under the rim of his old gambler hat. “Exactly. S’why I’m sayin’, you should be lettin’ loose, havin’ a good time. Not stuck with some grizzled old curmudgeon like me.”

Your brows furrow and you angle your head to the side as the Halfbred lips at the shoulder of your blouse. You’d think it was cute if what Arthur said didn’t irk you so much. “You ain’t that much older than me, you fool. And you ain’t no _curmudgeon_, either,” you retort, throwing his highfalutin language right back at him.

Arthur simply shakes his head as he sticks a cigarette between his lips and bends down to strike a match off the sole of his boot. He’s wobbly though, and he almost tips over before he can accomplish the goal. “Ain’t…_Christ! –_ that ain’t what other folks seem to think,” he manages as he straightens himself and brings the little flame to the end of his cigarette. _Real smooth, Morgan. Real smooth. Goddamn idiot._

You watch as he puffs a few times to make sure it’s fully lit, smoke pluming up against the flickering light of the electric street lamps.

“Bullshit. Other folks like _who?”_ you ask as you put your palm on the horse’s muzzle, gently guiding its wandering teeth away from the apparently delectable fabric of your shirt.

He lets the smoke dangle from the corner of his mouth as he comes up on his mare, reaching down to adjust the saddle’s girth and make sure it’s tight enough. “Sean, Marston, Bill, Pearson, Uncle,” he drawls out slowly. “Though I never put much stock in what that filthy old rotter has to say -“

You bark out a laugh that interrupts him. Before you can say anything else, a voice cuts through the empty street from the saloon you’d just vacated.

“Say, what the hell you doin’ with my horse!?”

Your eyes flick to Arthur and a mean little grin spreads across your lips. You’re feeling rambunctious, still a bit adrenaline-high from the robbery and pleasantly buzzed, besides. “Time to go!”

You snatch up the Halfbred’s reins and haul yourself up onto the saddle, clicking your tongue and pulling to the side to urge the horse into a turn.

_“Hey!_ Hey, _stop!” _

Arthur’s eyes widen and he takes a moment to quickly glance back before he’s following suit, hoisting himself up and urging his own horse into a canter just behind you.

_“Hey! Goddamnit, somebody get the sheriff!” _

You burst into a short peal of laughter as the Halfbred winds down the dusty road heading out of town, lathering itself up into a full gallop. You feel good, the wind whipping your hair, the pounding of hooves right at your heels signifying that Arthur is still just behind you, reliable as ever.

You turn the Halfbred off the road abruptly and crash through the trees, letting it find its own way as you duck and cover your head with a hand to avoid getting snapped in the face by wayward branches. The horse takes you down an embankment and across a shallow stream, moonlight trickling down through the canopy above in silvery ribbons.

A hearty whoop escapes you as a flock of grouse startle at your raucous approach and flush from the bushes in every direction, wings beating staccato against the air. You hear Arthur yelling something behind you, but their sudden trills and squawks drown him out.

The Halfbred carries you out on the other side and up an opposing embankment, snorting and breathing heavily when it finally breaks through the trees some minutes later. It’s brought you up the crest of a hill, and where the ground flattens out is a grassy meadow, lush with patches of wildflowers and the rhythmic buzz of summertime insects.

You puff out an astonished breath, pulling up on the horse’s reins and slowing. The stars practically seem ablaze in the sky, and just as you tilt your head back to look Arthur’s voice cuts through the night behind you. _“Jesus,_ woman! Could’ve given me some kind of a warnin’!”

You cut a quick glance back at him before hoisting a leg over and sliding off the saddle. A breathless kind of laugh escapes you as you twirl a bit in the high grass, spreading your arms at your sides. “C’mon, Arthur! It was _fun!”_

He’s there in a moment to catch you with sure hands when your foot tangles in a clump of weeds and you yelp and almost spill yourself onto the ground in a tipsy heap. He chuckles and shakes his head, righting you and gently pushing you to regain your balance with the tips of his fingers on your biceps.

An incredulous look spreads across his face when you flop down anyway, sprawling on your back in the meadow grass that smells sweetly of hay and clover. You run your hands down over your face, inhaling deeply of that green, living smell.

When you open your eyes again Arthur is standing above you, staring out across the meadow. A slight smirk graces the corner of his mouth, makes the crow’s feet appear at the corners of his eyes. “…I guess it was a_ little_ fun.”

He won’t admit that _any_ time he gets to spend with you is almost always fun; you’re sharp, you’re funny, and you keep him on his toes. You and Karen Jones are much the same in that regard, and when the two of you get together for a serious night of palling around, things tend to get crazy. Arthur also won’t admit that he very much _likes_ your brand of crazy.

His eyes flick down when you bark out a triumphant little ‘hah!’ at his admission, raising a hand in the air and clicking your tongue again. Arthur can’t help but chuckle when the Halfbred obeys your wordless command, coming over to paw at the grass and nudge its nose into your open palm.

He shakes his head and lets his eyes roam the animal, appraising it as he reaches out to give it a few firm pets. “So, how is it you ain’t got some young fool trippin’ all over himself to make you happy, huh? You got some secret suitor no one at camp knows about?”

You snort and roll your eyes at Arthur’s question. If only he knew; hell, maybe he _does_ know. That’s the mystery of him; almost every woman at camp’s been sweet on him at some time or another, but nobody’s ever managed to snag him. He is elusive, aloof, and painfully self-deprecating.

You angle your head, cast your gaze away from the Halfbred to look up at him. “Maybe I’m sweet on somebody in the gang. You ever consider that, Mr. Nosy?”

Arthur blinks. He retrieves another cigarette and lowers himself down into the grass a few feet away, rummages in his satchel for his matchbook. “It ain’t Marston, is it?” He squints at you as he strikes the match, suddenly irked for no reason. “I swear, if that little _urchin’s_ been stringin’ you along-“

“It _ain’t_ Marston, you fool. How dumb do you think I am?” You roll over onto your belly so that you’re closer to him, reaching out and making gimme motions with your fingers.

He scoffs and takes a quick puff of the cigarette before handing it down to you. The tips of your fingers brush against each other, and you lean just to the side, up on one elbow, letting your cheek rest in your free hand to try and hide your sudden nervousness. He shifts as well, bringing his legs up so he can rest his elbows on his knees.

You’ve nearly worked up the nerve to ask him what the interest in your love life is all about when he breaks the short bout of silence first with another question.

“How long you been with us, now? Almost two years?”

“Just about,” you reply with an exhale of smoke as you offer the cigarette back to him. “You were the one convinced Dutch to let me join up. I still don’t know how you did that.”

He takes it, nods, smiles again as he remembers how it all played out. “Yeah…now, I know you’re smart, but tryin’ to rob _Bill Williamson?”_ He chuckles, shaking his head. “What the hell were you thinkin’?”

You give him a withering grimace as he smokes and watches you shrug awkwardly. “He’s big and dumb. Would’ve been easy pickings if the rest of you hadn’t been there.”

Arthur lets out a real belly laugh then, handing the cigarette back to you before he finally relents and stretches himself back into the grass. “You are right about that…”

You can’t help laughing too, remembering how put out Bill had looked when Dutch finally admitted it couldn’t hurt to have another thief and a hustler among their numbers.

This laughter has always come easy to you and Arthur; you share the same wry sense of humor, folks like Bill and John Marston falling easy prey to your biting wit. It’s an unspoken connection that elicits a particular feeling within you, like moths beating dust-heavy wings against the inside of your rib cage in their frantic, near-constant search for light. You know Arthur laughs easy, and whether it’s feigned or not you’ll probably never know, but you still feel particularly proud when it’s something clever you’ve said that’s caused it.

“So if it ain’t Marston…” He chews his lip for a moment, picks up the hat that’s half-fallen off his head and sets it in the grass down by his hip. “Javier,” he blurts out decisively.

You snort out smoke, shake your head a bit coquettishly as you pass the cigarette back up to him, stretching forward to reach now that he’s laying down. “Nope.”

Arthur reaches down to take it from you, jolts slightly and half-sits up on his elbows. “Charles?”

“That’s your third guess, you got no more left. Sorry, cowboy,” you sigh up into the night air as you roll onto your back once more, folding your hands under your head.

Arthur smokes and furrows his brows. Before you know it he’s moved and his face is popping back into your field of vision, blocking out the moon’s bright glow. “You ain’t sweet on that goddamn _O’Driscoll!?”_

_“Jesus!”_ You reach up with one hand and press your palm to his scruffy cheek to push him away. You sit up, exasperated with this boyish game he seems fixated on playing. “You ain’t figured it out yet? I’m sweet on _you,_ dumbass,” you say almost breathlessly before you even let yourself think of the consequences.

The drink and the merrymaking may have emboldened you, but you are still fully aware of what a tough nut he is. You know his life has been mostly shit luck, a series of dire experiences and bad decisions, one after another. You don’t want to be another bad decision.

But, God, if he only knew how handsome he was; if he could only feel the hammering of those moths’ wings against the inside of your chest whenever he brings you a cup of coffee or a new book he’s picked up in town that he thinks you might like. If he only knew the impact every small gift and thoughtless gesture truly has on you.

You swallow thickly, resigning yourself to whatever fate awaits you as you cast your gaze timidly away from him. He is awfully close to you now that you’re sitting up.

You hear a humorless chuckle, and the tone of it is what finally makes your eyes swivel back to him.

“Real funny,” he sneers softly as he takes one last drag from the cigarette and butts it out into the grass.

You blink, your voice cracking slightly as it takes on a low, serious note. “It ain’t a joke.”

His jaw works and he meets your gaze, holding it for a while. You think you can see a wild mixture of emotions flashing behind his blue-green eyes. He snorts suddenly, places a palm back on the ground like he’s going to lever himself to his feet.

You’re quick, though; you snatch his wrist and hold onto it, keeping him there. You think maybe you should shut up, but the levee has broken and there’s no going back now. “You wanted to know, Arthur. So I’m tellin’ you.”

He sighs, tilting his head down, looking at your tiny hand clutched around his wrist. His hat isn’t there to cover his eyes though, and you can see the conflict written plain on his face. “Didn’t ask for you to keep playin’ none of your silly goddamn games,” he mutters.

You let go of him suddenly, bringing your hand up to poke him in the chest, hard. “What makes you think I’m playin’ games with you!? Every woman in that goddamn camp’s been after you at some point or another, and you’ve shrugged all of ‘em off! Do you even realize?” you ask harshly, poking him once more for effect.

He blinks and reaches up to snatch your hand and stop you, holding it away from his chest easily. “Stop it,” he says with a grimace.

“No. You know what, no. I ain’t gonna stop. Why is it you don’t let nobody in? Huh? You get to pester me about my sad excuse for a love life, why don’t I get the same privilege?”

He sneers and shakes his head, looks off somewhere to your left. “‘Cause it ain’t none of your concern.”

Your exasperation is building. “Why? You’re a goddamn hypocrite, Arthur.”

“Yeah, I’m a hypocrite. And a lousy drunk, and a thief and a killer. I’m a real goddamn _prize specimen_. Why the hell you _think_ I shrug them girls off? Miss Tilly, Mary-Beth, they’re too young to know how things is, too goddamn naive. I expected _you’d_ at least know better.” He lets go of you, shifts and moves like he’s going to try and stand up again.

You make an unhappy sound in your throat, but do not move to stop him this time. “You wanna know what _I know,_ Arthur Morgan?”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, but he stops shifting. Merely readjusts himself on the grass awkwardly without answering you.

“I know that this gang means more to you than just about anything else. And I know you carry the weight of it more than anybody else. Dutch can stand up on his little soapbox and quote Miller and preach about the horrors of civilization all goddamn day, but _you’re_ the one out there gettin’ your hands dirty and breakin’ your back so that someday, _maybe,_ the rest of us can live in that wonderful fantasy world he’s dreamed up!”

Arthur’s eyes go wide as your little speech becomes impassioned, but you don’t give him a chance to get a word in edgewise.

“You look after _all_ us girls, and little Jack too! And I know you like to say otherwise, but it’s pretty goddamn obvious you ain’t just some heartless bastard out there killin’ for the fun of it! I know you got a heart, Arthur. And I know what it’s like to be surrounded by people and…and still feel like you’re the loneliest person on the earth.” Your voice cracks a bit at the end there, you can’t help it. All you can do is grab up his hand in both of yours, leaning forward and squeezing to emphasize your point.

“I know you got demons you’re runnin’ from. But why do you think you have to face ‘em alone?”

He stares at you hard for a brief spell, a look of mingled shame and existential exhaustion masking his features. You hear him mutter some kind of curse under his breath before suddenly something breaks inside of him and he is surging forward and his hand is reaching up, fingers dragging along the side of your neck and up into the hair at the back of your head, and he is kissing you. Arthur Morgan is kissing you, very suddenly, now, in this singular moment frozen in time, in a field you led him to somewhere west of Valentine after getting a bit drunk and deciding to steal a stranger’s horse on nothing more than a lark.

You barely have enough time to register the taste of whiskey and cigarettes on his lips before he is pulling back, scrambling away, fisting the hand that had been threading into your hair mere moments before.

“Shit. _Jesus_. I’m - I shouldn’t -“

He looks away from you with so much shame in his eyes, it almost feels like your heart’s going to break at the sight of it. You wonder briefly if it was that _Mary_ that did this to him.

“Arthur,” you plead breathlessly as you crawl after him on your hands and knees, stopping just short, reaching out for him before second-guessing yourself and yanking your hand back. You don’t know if he even wanted this. What right do you have to chase him?

You sit back on your heels and take a steadying breath. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and he stifles a helpless a groan at the sight of it. Desire has made a fool of him, and he resigns himself to the knowledge that it shall only continue to do so.

“Arthur, I…I care for you a great deal, and have done for longer than I care to admit. Okay?” You spread your hands at your sides helplessly, speaking to him in the same soft, slow tone you’d use with a skittish animal. “And if you don’t feel anything for me, then just say so. Just tell me, and I’ll leave you alone. We can just drop the whole lousy business, just…just be honest with me. Please.”

He knows he should lie and say that he has ever only viewed you as a friend or a sister; he knows this, and yet he cannot bring himself to say it. He swallows the lump that has formed in his throat, eyes darting away from you guiltily. The raw, anxious look on your face makes him want to surge forward once more and take you into his arms and never let you go. But he’s never been enough before; what makes him think he could be now?

You tangle your fingers together in your lap, trying not to sound as hurt as you’re starting to feel. “Why ain’t you sayin’ anything, Arthur…?”

He blinks and refocuses, realizing that you are waiting for him to give you some kind of an answer. “Sweetheart, listen to me-“

“Don’t. I’m sorry, but don’t call me that if you’re not…if this ain’t somethin’ you want.”

He shifts again uncomfortably. He is torn, irrevocably so. He wants nothing more than to tell you how badly he _does_ want it. He wants to tell you how beautiful you are when you’re standing at the edge of camp, hanging laundry to dry and humming to yourself when you think no one is listening. How he always ends up with a smile on his face whenever he sees you bringing little gifts and things for Jack when you return from a trip to town. How pathetically his heart jumps into his throat every time you offer him a kind word or a secret smile.

“You don’t know what you’re askin’. I am not a good man, and I certainly ain’t good for you…”

“That ain’t what I asked you, Arthur,” you reply in a near whisper.

He emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. “See, the thing is, what I want don’t matter. Even if I say it, I know what’ll happen and I know how it’s gonna end. So what’s the goddamn point,” he mumbles, staring down at a praying mantis that has made its way up onto his boot in the darkness.

You search his face for a few moments, then watch as he almost tenderly reaches down to scoop up the gangly insect and place it back in the grass, out of harm’s way. The unprecedented gentleness of his actions makes your breath catch in your throat, and despite your great efforts, you feel tears stinging your eyes. “Oh, Arthur…”

His brow furrows and his gaze flicks back to you. “Oh, Arthur _what?”_ It seems to sting him, that phrase, though you can’t imagine why.

You shake your head and lean forward, placing a hand gingerly on his knee; this seems like a safe space to make contact, not too intimate for this fragile moment. “How can you say what you want don’t matter? All we got in this miserable life is what we want…what we dream about and hope for. Ain’t you got dreams, Arthur? Ain’t you got somethin’ to hope for?”

He dreams about you. Warming the clinical sparseness of his shitty little cot, nuzzling up against him while the rest of the world burns outside the thin canvas of his tent. Loving him. Making him feel like a human being again, like he did when he was a younger man, still idealistic and thirsting to show the world what he was made of. “‘Course I do,” is all he actually says.

Your mouth quirks. You lean in a bit closer, putting pressure on his knee. “What do you dream about, Arthur…?”

His eyelids flutter as he swallows again and cuts his gaze away. You’re so close he can feel your breath against his throat. _“You._ God help me, it’s always yo-“

You snatch his words away with a hungry kiss, feel his hands on you like he’s going to push you away, but he doesn’t. Instead he touches you desperately, hands roaming up your shoulders, clutching at your collar, threading back up into your hair. He doesn’t let you go this time; he can’t, not now. Whatever comes, at least in this moment, by the light of the moon, he finally has what he’s hoped for for so long.


	2. Part II

You wrap your fists into the open collar of Arthur’s shirt to pull him impossibly closer when you realize he isn’t pushing you away this time. If spilling your secret to him was the levee breaking, his confession is like a tidal wave, crashing through everything in its path to drown the both of you in its wake.

And goddamn, if drowning doesn’t suit you just fine right now. Your mouth glides apart from Arthur’s, teeth dragging across his lip as you pull back just enough to breathe; you compensate for leaving him - what feels like a mortal sin - by pressing your forehead to his, maintaining that fragile connection any way you can, reaching up to cradle his head in your hands. “Arthur, I-“

He cuts you off by pulling you back in with the palm he has splayed at the nape of your neck, kissing your words away with an unprecedented hunger. His grasp is swift and desperate, and you find yourself pressed flush against him, gasping in another breath as his mouth moves and trails across the curve of your jaw. 

It’s like he can’t figure out exactly where he wants to be, but all he knows is that he needs to _feel_ you, any way he can, needs to make sure this isn’t just another one of his dreams. His breath fans hot against your throat as he clutches at you, and the only thought in your head at this moment is that he is like a man lost in the desert who has finally found an oasis.

Months and months of pining have done the same to you, and his attempt to get you to stop talking doesn’t work very well. You splay a hand against his chest to give yourself a bit of leverage while the other snakes down, down between the both of your bodies to where you think he wants you most. “Arthur, I _want_ you…goddamnit, I-“

He goes rigid. He drags his face out of the crook of your neck and his desperate hands stop their explorations just as abruptly as they’d started. The other parts of his dreams, the darkest parts, have reared their ugly heads at the very implication of your desperate plea.

A vision of you as Eliza crashes through his mind; you becoming pregnant, dying in childbirth, or being beaten and robbed and quite possibly raped at the hands of some goddamn vicious animals that he will most certainly not be there to protect you from. And he is no better than they are, is he? Because it will be _his_ selfishness that will end you. Somehow, some way, he knows this to be true. He couldn’t possibly deserve anything else.

And so he snatches up your hand once more, though the entirety of his long-buried, primal lizard brain screams at him not to. “I can’t…_Jesus Christ,”_ he mutters, trembling, holding you back, bowing his head in shame. “I can’t do that to you. I can’t. I’m sorry, I _can’t_…”

You stare at him in the silvery light of the moon, panting heavy not only from adrenaline and the lack of breath but from the sudden, crushing weight of what it is he’s doing. “What…?”

“I can’t. I can’t.” He levers himself backwards in the grass and stands up, bends down to quickly scoop up his hat before he’s circling around where you still sit, motionless in the grass.

All you can do is stare at the spot he’s just vacated, jaw slack in shock and confusion.

“I, um…” He clears his throat as he comes up on his dapple mare, taking her reins up in one hand. “I’ve got to…you, you should get back to camp. I can’t…I’m sorry. I gotta go,” he babbles as he pulls himself up onto the saddle and, mere moments later, just like that, disappears into the trees at the edge of the meadow.

A terrible grimace of pain pulls down the corners of your mouth. It opens a little wider to emit a cracked, soundless cry as you try to figure out what the _fuck _it was that just happened.

-

-

Weeks go by, and the entire camp notices the sudden rift that has widened between the two of you. You will not ride together on jobs with him; in fact, you spend most of your days getting piss-drunk and planning out elaborate heists with Karen. Only one in every dozen or so seems to come to fruition, but you couldn’t really give a damn either way. Karen is your next-best friend besides Arthur, and at this point you will take any excuse to avoid him.

He hasn’t attempted to explain himself, not once. The longer you wait for an apology or some sort of excuse, the more despondent you become. The girls have tried talking to you, but all you’ve managed to do is drunkenly argue and offend their sensibilities; it didn’t take long for them to realize that you have no desire to be talked to.

You hear Dutch ask Arthur questions about the two of you which he has no good answers for; he struggles to shrug it off, coming up with flimsy excuses or changing the subject. One day, Abigail asks him to take little Jack and do something fun with the boy for a few hours, and you hear Arthur tell him to go get his fishing pole.

Something snaps inside you then; any other time, first thing, Arthur would have found you and made sure you were free to go along with them. You don’t see him looking briefly in your direction before he scoops the boy up onto his mare’s saddle: you’re much too busy stalking off towards Dutch’s tent.

You know there are O’Driscolls in the area, and your pathetic behavior as of late has earned ire from many of the camp’s other outriders. You tell Dutch you’re going out to do some reconnaissance, pack up your travel gear, and ride off with barely another word to anyone. You think, if you can just get your hands on some information on the next big score they have planned, everybody might leave you the hell alone to stew in your own misery in peace for a while. And killing a few of those lousy bastards along the way would surely help to work out the hurt and anger threatening to boil over within you…wouldn’t it?

When Arthur returns, he sends Jack back to his mother and then looks around to see where you are; his guilt tends to keep him at the opposite end of camp from wherever you currently happen to be. You’ve been orbiting around each other, both of you taking great pains to narrowly avoid the other like ships in the night. He doesn’t see you and ends up falling in with Charles, clapping the man on the shoulder as he comes to stand beside him.

Charles sits on a stump near the scout fire, and he pauses the work of sharpening the hatchet he always carries to make small talk with Arthur.

In the very _unsubtle_ way Arthur has, he subtly tries to ask where it is you’ve gotten off to. Charles tells him; a cabin up north, supposed to be an O’Driscoll outpost.

He pales. “She went off to look for _O’Driscolls._ By _herself. And you didn’t think to go with her!?” _

Charles furrows his brows. “She’s a competent tracker, Arthur. She told Dutch she only wanted to do some scouting. What the hell’s the problem!?”

Charles’ voice fades in the distance; Arthur has already stormed away from him, his blood rising at the mere implication of what you could have gotten yourself into. He grabs his shotgun and a few boxes of slugs from his munitions wagon before returning to his horse and preparing to leave.

His thoughts spiral as he pushes the dapple gray into a gallop. He has an idea of where this cabin is you’ve gone to, remembers talking to Dutch about it a week or so back, but he’ll need to check the map he carries at some point to make sure. He can stop when he hits Valentine, but right now he is too consumed with dread to consider slowing down.

After a while it isn’t just dread that fills him, though. The longer he rides, the angrier he gets. He’s angry at you, sure, for running off and doing something so stupid; but mostly he’s furious with himself. It seems no matter what, this goddamn world is hellbent on trying to destroy everything he cares about; no matter what decision he makes, things always go to shit. He knows if it hadn’t been for the way he’d acted, you’d never have gone out there by yourself.

The worst part - Arthur knows all too well how Colm O’Driscoll is; knows the kind of company he keeps, the type of men he likes to have around. If they catch you, it will not be quick and painless. It will be slow and terrifying and immensely agonizing. They will break you before they kill you, in just about every sense of the word. Arthur spurs his mare on faster, panic gnawing incessantly at the edges of his composure.

You, on the other hand, have had unprecedented luck since coming up on Six Points Cabin. It was obvious by the wagons and tents and other sundry trash and supplies littering the property that quite a few of Colm’s gang had been staying here, but you found it practically deserted. You counted only a handful of men, and most of them were well into their cups by the time you slunk in from between the trees at the backside of the cabin.

You might have been angry, but you weren’t stupid; you knew even a handful of drunk men could easily overwhelm you if you weren’t careful. You bided your time, watched them coming in and out, made sure your head count was correct before you began silently picking them off one by one whenever they left the cabin to relieve themselves.

So now, with the O’Driscolls dead and a satchel full of coin and other useful sundries you’d looted from their corpses, you decide to make quick work of searching the cabin. You push the door open and make your way inside, heading for the table in the middle of the room first. A half-finished game of poker clutters the table with cards and coin, but underneath you spy a few stained documents that look like they could be plans for a train robbery.

You have no idea there are two of Colm’s men who’ve just returned to the cabin. So focused are you on pocketing the rest of their money and moving bottles of vodka and plates of half-eaten food out of the way to get to those documents, you don’t hear them talking and laughing nastily with each other as they make their way toward the door.

What you _do_ hear is the loud thunderclap **bang** of a shotgun going off and then a yell and then the door slamming open and someone running inside behind where your back is turned. You yank your cattleman from its holster in a swift and practiced movement, pulling back the hammer and whipping around to aim at the intruder.

A split-second appraisal tells you this is another O’Driscoll, and you fire without hesitation. He is already spattered with his friend’s blood, but now a narrow hole in his chest is beginning to stain his shirt a deep crimson and he stumbles backwards in surprise.

And very suddenly Arthur is there in the doorway, shotgun dangling in one hand, coming up behind the man to yank him backwards, away from you, because he has no idea which of you fired the shot. For just a second you think you can see dread flashing through the angry grimace he’s sporting, but when the man fumbles backwards through the door and falls out onto the little porch with a heavy thud, all that remains on Arthur’s visage is clear and present anger.

_“Arthur!?_ What the _hell_ are you doin’ out here!?” You lower the revolver and jam it back into the holster at your hip, stalking towards him in the dim light of the cabin. Evening has set in outside, and in the back of your mind you know you’ve been out here far too long already, but this little situation seems like something that needs resolving.

He slams the shotgun down on top of a counter that juts out from the wall before taking an almost threatening step in your direction. “I should be askin’ you the same goddamn thing. What in _Christ’s name_ was you thinkin’ comin’ out here all by yourself!?”

You stop in your tracks, fisting your hands at your sides. Typical. The big man, the enforcer, coming to rescue the stupid, fragile woman. Coming to save the day. Is this what he wants, to make himself feel like a hero after the way he’s treated you?

You can’t help the hoarse, bitter chuckle that escapes your throat. “So _now_ you’re worried about me, is that it? As long as I’m around camp, bein’ fuckin’ _miserable_, things is okay? But as soon as I step out to do some work, clear my head, you gotta run out and be the goddamn _knight in shinin’ armor!?”_

His jaw works. He huffs out a big breath, glances down at his boots for just a moment to try and regain some of his composure. “You know it ain’t like that! I ain’t sayin’ you’re stupid, you _know_ I ain’t, but what you done today!? _Reckless_ and _stupid_, plain ‘n goddamn simple,” he grits out as he cuts a hand through the air. All of a sudden he points a finger at you accusingly. “What if there’d been thirty goddamn men here instead of just five or six, huh? What if I hadn’t been here in time to help you when them two fellas came back!?”

_“I don’t need your goddamn help!”_ You voice becomes shrill as you turn away from him to snatch up those plans from the table.

“Don’t you turn away from me,” he demands, stalking forward, grabbing you by your arm to spin you back around.

And as you’re spun, you raise one hand and slap him across the face, hard.

Arthur’s head swivels. For just a moment, he is stunned into silence.

_“Don’t touch me! You ain’t got the right!”_ Your fury at his haughty self-righteousness is boiling over; a different kind of levee broken, one you’d never thought possible before now. “What the _hell_ did you think was gonna happen!? You storm in here, playin’ the hero, rescue the damsel in distress,” you spit at him, shoving him in the chest with both hands so that he stumbles backwards. “And then what!? I fall into your arms, and you get to let me down a _second time!?” _

He lets you push him. He doesn’t raise a hand, doesn’t make a move to stop you. His head is lowered, the brim of his hat hiding his eyes. Yours are currently brimming with furious tears and you curse yourself for not being able to control that weakness. You shove him again, a little less forceful this time, dejection and sadness leeching through your anger. “You’re a goddamn son of a bitch, Arthur,” you manage to croak out before covering your mouth with a hand to mask a small, angry sob.

His head is a convoluted tangle of thoughts, each and every one fighting for supremacy. He does not want to see you like this, does not want to bear the knowledge that _he_ is the sole cause of your misery. Is it better this way, he wonders? He’d thought your feelings would seep away in time, that it would be better to lose you as a friend and keep you at arm’s length, but _alive_, than willingly let you make the mistake of loving him; because it would be a mistake, wouldn’t it?

But the thing is, life is chaotic. He could have easily lost you today, and that would have had nothing to do with his horrid nightmares of you sharing the same fate as Eliza all those years ago. A switch seems to flip inside him. He cannot control what the future intends, nor what the past has wrought, no matter how hard he fixates. All he can do is try to be better.

He finally raises his gaze and looks at you with such overwhelming sadness that it causes you to physically falter. You take a step back from him, brows furrowing and lips parting.

“Sweetheart,” he mutters, voice cracking in a near-whisper, chasing you with a small and timid step forward.

And, God help you, just like that, you _are_ falling into his arms. Your mouth finds his, teeth clicking together with the force of your momentum, but the small jolt barely registers in your mind. You are much too busy grasping at him, pulling him close, pulling him backwards, frenzied in the need for contact, for closeness, for _him_.

His hands, big and usually so sure, again now seem flustered in their ministrations. He has no idea where to put them, so he puts them everywhere. You feel his touch gliding up your ribs, pressing into your shoulder blades, threading up into your hair as he follows you wherever you’re blindly leading him to.

Your backside hits the edge of the table, stopping your backwards momentum. You have to pull away from him to catch your breath, so with trembling hands you grab at his shirt to either side of where it’s buttoned and rip hard, exposing the solid muscle that’s hidden underneath, chiseled from decades of riding and running. You hear him suck in a sharp breath when your mouth finds his collar bone, swiftly and blindly lowering your hands to work at undoing his gun belt.

He curses and tilts his head back, hips involuntarily bucking forward at the close proximity of your hands to his manhood. He only has a few moments to make a very important choice, and his cold, depreciative logic is quickly being booted out the door at the simple and intense need you’re exuding.

He opens his eyes at the sudden clank of his belt hitting the floor and all reason is lost to him. His breath shudders against the side of your head as he slouches slightly to better reach your own belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle in his haste to have it off of you.

You think you should ask him why he avoided you for so long. You think you should call him an ass and an oaf and a selfish bastard, and you also think that his hands aren’t working nearly fast enough.

You push him away a few inches so that you can remove your own belt and undo the buttons on your trousers, and just as soon as you’ve started hiking them down your legs, Arthur is bending around you to sweep all the junk off the table with one powerful swing of his arm and lifting you up, pushing you forward with his hips, hands smoothing down from under your arms to paw at your ass desperately.

You gasp at the feel of him pressing forward, desperately kicking your trousers the rest of the way off your legs so that you can hook them around his waist. 

Arthur groans at the very thought of you being so exposed. He aches with need, has forgotten what it even felt like until this very moment. You’ve undone him quite easily. _“Tell me,”_ he breathes between frenzied kisses, hips bucking again despite his best efforts, _“tell me to stop.”_

“No,” you reply decisively as you grab one of his hands and guide it down between the both of you, encouraging him to feel exactly what it is he’s done to you.

He sucks in a sharp breath as his hand settles to cup at your core, fingers gingerly sliding across the moistened skin. _“Christ,”_ he mumbles thickly, a shudder running through him that you can feel all the way down in his fingertips.

You gasp against the touch, arching your back towards him, trying to find his lips again. It has grown almost full dark inside the cabin, but somehow you manage to catch his mouth with your own, reaching down to smooth your palm up the hard plane of his arousal until your fingertips nimbly turn to hook around the top of his waistband.

Arthur grunts, low and deep, finding some semblance of control and sliding his fingers back and forth against the slick heat of you a few more times before he is removing his hand, fumbling with his own buttons to free himself from the confines of his clothing. _“M’sorry._ M’sorry I acted like a goddamn fool…”

He uses his other hand to paw at your backside, pulling you to the very edge of the table, capturing your lips in another feverish kiss before you feel the head of him sliding up against you. “You’re all I _ever_ think about,” he mumbles, voice slurred and husky. It sends your eyes rolling skyward to hear it, to feel him so _goddamn close_ to where you want him.

“Just _scared._ So goddamn scared of losin’ you,” he continues as he takes himself in his free hand, the other still wrapped under your backside, pulling you in towards him as he presses his chest up against you. “I’m so goddamn scared of fuckin’ things up…”

You shake your head, take his face into your hands, smoothing the hair away from his eyes with sloppy thumbs. _“Don’t be scared,”_ you breathe.

And then he is nudging, lining himself up, finding you in the close dark of the night, in a shitty cabin somewhere in the depths of Cumberland Forest, and you couldn’t care less about any goddamn O’Driscolls because right now, he is figuring out exactly where he needs to be.

Your lips part in a silent moan as he sinks himself, the sudden stretch causing you to keen and tilt your head back. You instinctively raise one of your legs to encourage him even further, and he responds by hooking a hand up under your knee.

He stills, puffing out heavy breaths, closing his eyes and leaning into your touch, pressing his forehead to yours. “Promise. Promise me you ain’t gonna leave me,” he mutters, knowing all the while it is the inane babbling of a lovesick fool.

“I ain’t -“ your response is interrupted when he chooses that exact moment to start moving. You groan, eyes rolling at the painfully slow pace he is setting, like he’s scared to even pull too far away from you. “I won’t. I won’t, I _promise_ I won’t,” you finally manage, one of your hands smoothing away from his cheek to cradle the back of his head, holding him there with you, looking up, waiting for him to finally open his eyes.

Your vision has adjusted to the darkness, and you make note of his lids finally blinking open when you swivel your hips just so, moving your body to meet his and wordlessly encouraging him, fingernails grazing through his hair and dragging against his scalp. “M’sorry I scared you…”

His body is so hot; he wonders that the heat emanating around the both of you must be reminiscent of what it’s like shoveling coal into a furnace. He doesn’t remember it being this way with Mary; she was so tepid and proper, and he’d thought it was love because he had no basis for comparison. But this, right now? It feels like it could consume him. And he would gladly let it.

His hips snap roughly against yours as a wave of sinful pleasure courses through him. It causes a sharp, low moan to escape your throat and he curses hastily, forcing himself to slow back down, to compose himself, to check and make sure that he hasn’t hurt you in any way.

You only narrow your eyes, forehead still pressed to his, keeping him there with that hand at the back of his neck._ “Don’t stop,”_ you plead breathlessly as you recline back against the table, pulling him down with you, forcing him to cage you in under the bulk of his body.

Arthur slaps one palm down on the tabletop beside your waist, grunting at the sudden change of angle. His face burrows its way into the crook of your neck. He wordlessly follows your command and allows himself to let go a little, thrusting deeper in half-measured strokes, feeling the tight knot of release starting to coil itself up down low in his belly.

You keen and tilt your head, closing your eyes tightly as you snake your hand down between your bodies to touch yourself, imagining that one day soon you might be able to show him how to do this, how to touch you just the right way to make you come undone. As it is, you’re pretty goddamn close already. The sheer weight of the guilt and uncertainty both of you have shouldered over the last few weeks seems to have heightened your senses, leaving your nerves raw as the urgency of your coupling becomes a sort of catharsis in and of itself.

Arthur straightens up suddenly, dragging his palm from the tabletop to grope at your hip, squeezing and pulling you to the edge of the table rhythmically in time with the thrust of his hips.

All you can do is stare up at the ceiling, mouth agape, distantly cursing yourself somewhere in the vast reaches of your mind for probably looking more like a fish drowning in air than a woman about to be in the throes of an orgasm. Your free hand finds the one he has grasping your hip and you hold onto it, clutch it desperately as your other hand works you to the very crest of your pleasure, those weeks’ worth of anger and humiliation and months worth of pining for him all seeming to converge in a single, powerful knee-jerk reaction. You cry out and arch your back off the table towards him.

Arthur falters in his rhythm when he feels your body squeezing around him, hears it when his name slips past your lips in a furtive whine that sounds like goddamn choirs of angels in his ears, and that is the absolute end of him. He jerks himself from you, grunting and taking himself in his hand, bending down to press his forehead between your breasts as he pumps roughly a few times and spends himself on the floor of the cabin. He distantly thanks his lucky stars he had the wherewithal to do that much.

Your hands find his head, coming up to thread fingers tenderly through his hair as you try to catch your breath. His own heavy breathing fans against your sternum.

He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, staring down into the fabric of your blouse, suddenly very afraid of looking up at you. He heard the sounds you made, somewhere deep down he thinks he knows this is the start of something, but he just can’t shake that powerful little voice that tells him he can do nothing but let you down.

After a prolonged bout of silence punctuated only by the sounds of the both of you catching your breath, you stop running your fingers through his hair, concerned, angling your head to look down at him. “Arthur…? You okay…?”

His eyelids flutter. He goes to answer you, lifting his head slightly, then realizes he’s a fucking idiot and he’s probably crushing you under his weight. “Sure,” he mutters as he removes himself from between your legs, gaze lowering to the floor with the pretense of looking for your discarded trousers.

You sit yourself up, keenly aware of how your legs are trembling. You push the tingling, pins-and-needles feeling to the back of your mind and reach out, grabbing at his fingers with your own. “Arthur…talk to me, would you? Don’t clam up on me again, not now. Please…”

He looks down at your fingers loosely hooking onto his own. His gaze flicks back up to meet yours, a little apprehensive still, but the look on your face tells him he’s being a fool once again. He stoops very quickly to grab your pants up off the floor before he surges forward and kisses you, bolder this time, a little bit more confident. “Sorry. I…guess I wasn’t quite sure how you was gonna feel once the dust settled,” he admits demurely.

You shake your head and reach up to cradle his scruffy cheek, telling him he has no need to worry, but you only feel the coarseness his short beard at your fingertips for a moment before he is taking a knee on the floor and ever so gently sliding the open legs of your trousers up over your feet for you.

You feel your heart flutter at the sight of him tending to you so gently, but you have to move if you want to finish the job. You slide down off the table and take over the business for him, hauling your pants up the rest of the way while he finally gets around to fixing his own clothing. His shirt is ruined, though, and he resolves to let it hang open until you get back out to the horses; thankfully he always keeps a few extra stuffed in his saddlebags.

Arthur scoops your gun belts up off the floor, handing yours to you before he buckles his own back on. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s get you home,” he croons as he places a hand at the small of your back.

You jolt at the memory of those plans and how he so unceremoniously swept them all onto the floor. You hold up a finger, indicating to him that you only need a moment to stoop down and squint until the shapes of the documents make themselves known to you in the dim moonlight filtering in through the dirty windows. You grab up the papers littering the floor, roll them up and stuff them into your satchel before turning back to him, catching his fingers loosely with your own in a brief and reassuring touch. “I’m ready.”

He leads you out of the cabin and back to your horses, cautious for any other O’Driscolls that may be riding back in. All is quiet though, the only sounds the forest offers are the hoots of owls and the rustling of small animals in the underbrush. A few wolves howl somewhere far off in the distance.

By the light of another moon, you and Arthur ride back to Horseshoe Overlook beside each other. At some point he looks over at you, asks if you’d stay with him, tonight, in his tent. Of course, you agree. You both smile softly, secretly, to yourselves for the remainder of the ride.

Later, he softly tells you what he’s been so scared of all this time, his arms wrapped around you, his head buried back into the crook of your neck; it seems like this is a spot he greatly appreciates, and you have no desire within you to dissuade him from it. You aren’t sure what to say in the wake of the tragic knowledge he’s entrusting you with, and so you simply shift beside him, curl your arms around his neck, softly run your fingers through his hair. You apologize, ashamed for overreacting now that you understand some of the demons that haunt him. And you promise him, between tender kisses, that you have no intentions of going anywhere.


	3. Part III

It’s been a week since the incident at Six Points Cabin; since Arthur succumbed to his feelings and the both of you let out your guilt and frustration on each other and you thought you’d seemingly reconciled yourselves. But it’s been hard getting time alone with him since; the both of you have been out at all hours, sometimes for days at a time, performing all manner of jobs and errands and daring rescues. You feel bad that Sean got some teeth knocked out of his head, but once he was safely back at camp you couldn’t help joking that those bounty hunters might not have done it if he actually knew when to shut his _fucking mouth_. The kid speaks more bluster and bullshit than even Dutch, and that’s saying something.

The time you and Arthur _have_ gotten to spend together has resulted in little more than awkward, chaste kisses on the corners of lips and stolen brushes of arms and fingertips, especially whenever one of you has been drinking a little too much. It’s all felt very clumsy, and you’re unsure of where you stand; and his behavior certainly isn’t helping.

You’d half-expected him to turn cold and dismissive once he’d gotten what he wanted, as so many of your previous entanglements had left you reeling in their wake. But when the two of you happened to be in camp at the same time, he was _always_ around; sipping his coffee close by you at the campfire, doing mindless chores somewhere within eye-shot whenever you were doing the same.

And you’d found yourself overloaded with chores as of late, to the point where you’d almost gotten into a vicious screaming match with old Susan Grimshaw. Karen had to hook your arms behind your back and haul you away before you did something you’d surely regret later. And all the while Arthur hovered in the distance like a quiet shadow. Sometimes he’d draw near, make a face like he wanted to say something; but whatever it was just never came.

So it surprised you greatly when he approached one evening after you’d both been out of camp all day and asked if you’d be interested in scouting some work across the state line in Lemoyne—in St. Denis, to be precise.

_“St. Denis?”_ you’d chirped incredulously. “Ain’t that a city? What the hell you wanna go down there for? You hated bein’ in _Blackwater.”_

He’d made a sound in his throat, rolled his shoulders and hooked his hands over his gun belt. “Cities got a lot more folk. _Rich_ folk. Rich, _stupid_ folk, can’t even be bothered to keep one eye on their purses...”

A steely, suspicious look was all he’d received in response. Regardless of the fact that this was the most the two of you had spoken since the night you’d come back from Six Points, something seemed funny.

“If we can find a good angle to work, we might be able to get somethin’ goin’ like what Hosea ‘n me had set up back in Blackwater. If we can find the right rich idiot lookin’ to invest his money, well...rest of it ain’t nothin’ but comin’ up with a passable backstory and forgin’ a few documents. May be we could set ourselves up for gettin’ outta here. For good.”

The thought of escape - a_ real_ escape from the law and the Pinkertons and the bounty hunters - was too tantalizing to pass up. He assured you if you rode out in the morning, you’d make it down there in a day.

“Anyone else comin’? Should I go tell Hosea?”

“No, no. Not just yet, anyway,” he’d replied in a restrained sort of way. “Let’s just...see what we can stir up first. If it comes to nothin’, well, there’s always cards to cheat ‘n pockets to pick.” He’d paused for a moment, glancing up at you from under the brim of his gambler. “Come wit’ me?”

So of course you’d saddled up in the early hours of the morning and ridden out. How could you say no? Arthur, however, immediately returned to being reticent in the daylight; it seemed he had a permanent scowl that just wouldn’t dissipate, felt miles away although he was riding right beside you. Attempts at conversation petered into silence after a while. Admittedly, his strange attitude was starting to worry you.

You’d reached St. Denis just as a storm was rolling through and eventually found your way to the Bastille, which was a much higher quality establishment than you were used to patronizing. Arthur insisted on paying for your dinner, so you insisted on buying a nice bottle of whiskey to take up to the room he’d rented for the both of you.

You ask for a bath to be run while you pay for the bottle, thinking maybe you could ask if he’d like to join you; that maybe he was simply stressed and exhausted from everything that had happened since the Blackwater fiasco, and perhaps he needed some time to relax just as much as you did, especially after being in the saddle all day. But when you turn around to find him in the bustling saloon, all you catch sight of are his boots disappearing up the stairs.

You can’t help a ragged sigh escaping. Your worry quickly turns into irritation with that stubborn man. You snatch the whiskey off the bar and throw the fellow behind it a surly ‘thank you’ before tromping off up the stairs yourself, saddlebag slung over your shoulder with a blessedly dry change of clothes resting inside.

You head straight for the bath without going to the room first, irritation easily crossing the line into passive-aggressiveness; you’re not going to chase him, you decide. You’re going to have yourself a nice warm bath while he sulks in his swampy clothes. You’re even going to drink some of that whiskey.

Might as well prepare for the inevitable, right? He’s been trying to figure out how to let you down gently, after all. It’s the only explanation you can come up with for his strange and aloof behavior. It pricks at you as you soak in the big, luxurious claw-foot tub. You didn’t think he’d been lying about all he told you, but it was also hard for you to believe a man like that could be so scared. This was _Arthur_, for God’s sakes; you’d never seen him look the least bit frightened of anything before your kiss under the moon less than a month ago.

You steel yourself with another swig of whiskey before you towel off and change into your dry clothes. When you knock on the door to the hotel room, there is no answer. You furrow your brows and turn the door handle to discover that it is, at the very least, unlocked.

Electric sconces on the walls cast the room in a dull, warm glow that bathes the elegant burgundy and brown furnishings in a honeyed light. You take a moment to examine everything; partially because years as an outlaw have trained you to be wary, but also because it is entirely unlike anything you’re used to. It’s _classy_ \- feels miles above your station, like you’ve broken into someone’s home instead of paying for the privilege of sleeping here.

Movement in your peripheral catches your attention and you turn your head to look over at a large set of French doors that must open onto a balcony. You see a small fiery glow bobbing in the darkness beyond the glass and realize Arthur is out there smoking a cigarette.

Puffing out your cheeks, you dump your saddlebag and your gun belt onto the floor in favor of scooping up two rocks glasses from a tray sat atop the lovely mahogany bureau just to your right. Arthur’s hat and satchel sit discarded beside it. You pour two whiskeys, chew your lip, glance up at the ceiling in a silent and brief little Hail Mary, and then make your way to the doors. Dexterously balancing both glasses in one hand, you thumb the latch and step out.

“Penny for your thoughts?” you ask softly as you offer one of the glasses out to him.

Arthur’s gaze slides away from the wet cobblestones that glisten still in the light of the street lamps. He remains pensive as ever, one leg thrown up on a small wrought iron patio table, that cigarette smoldering between the curled fingers of one hand.

He reaches up with the other to brush his thumb across the underside of his jaw - a sort of unconscious anxious gesture you’ve become aware of in recent months - before taking the proffered drink. “Eh, you know my head’s empty as a rain barrel in a drought,” he quips back suspiciously easy. “Thinkin’ your pennies’re better spent someplace else.” He lifts the glass to you, a silent sort of thanks.

You frown at his words as you lean your shoulder against the doorframe. “C’mon, Arthur. We both know that ain’t true.”

He snorts and squints mirthlessly, tilting his head down to take a drag from the cigarette. “Ain’t sure what I know. Well...’sides knowin’ you needed to get out of camp for a while.”

You scoff. “I don’t mind sharin’ the work but Grimshaw needs to lay off my back. I ride out on jobs, same as you all. I don’t need to get back to camp after a long day of shootin’ and runnin’ from the law just to have her screamin’ in my ear about pots that need scrubbin’-“

He chuckles softly at how your irritation spikes.

You shake your head, silently cursing yourself for letting your vexation get the better of you. “So, what? You brought me all the way down here just so I wouldn’t throttle Grimshaw’s stupid old neck?”

He huffs out a little chuckle full of smoke that wafts lazily up into the humid Lemoyne air, leans forward to stub the cigarette out and toss it over the railing. A glance up at you coupled with the way you’ve suddenly snapped tells him that maybe Susan isn’t the only source of your problems. “That woman would beat you six ways to Sunday if you even tried, sweetheart.”

You feel your brow twitch at the pet name. You’ve heard him call all the other girls sweetheart before, it’s not really anything new despite what the two of you have been through recently, but right now it is downright bothersome. You look away and take a hasty sip from your glass.

Arthur falls silent. For a few moments all either of you hear is the clamor coming from the bar downstairs. He knows he needs to say something, knows he’s been wearing his turmoil on his sleeve. “So, you took a bath, did you?” _Fucking idiot._ He briefly thinks about how much easier it would be to shoot himself.

“I did. Was _gonna_ ask if you wanted to join, but you scampered off up here about as quick you could, and been actin’ like you don’t wanna talk to me besides,” you reply pointedly. Enough of this pussy-footing.

He falters, obviously taken aback though it comes as no real surprise. “I-“

“Why’d you bring me down here, Arthur?”

His jaw clenches and he bows his head to pinch the bridge of his nose. He lets out a ragged sigh. “Them things I told you. ‘Bout Eliza ‘n the boy, I...it ain’t easy tellin’ somebody. And I just...I guess I wanted to make sure it really sunk in. The things I done,” he grits out, reluctantly raising his gaze to you. “The kinda man I am...”

Your brows furrow, fingers tightening around the glass. “I told you I wasn’t goin’ anywhere. I wasn’t lying.”

“I...I am tryin’ to tell you I don’t deserve no second chances.” His eyes bore into you. Multitudes lie behind them, a storm powerful enough to eclipse the one you rode through only an hour before.

“So you _did_ bring me down here to let me go, is that it? Let me down real easy like, and we just ride on back to camp like nothin’ ever happened? That’s a hell of a lotta time to waste just to tell somebody you don’t favor sleepin’ with ‘em ever again!”

He looks away from you, squeezing those brilliant eyes shut for a few moments. “St. Denis is a big port. Lots of ships, steamers. Trains runnin’ through all hours of the day. Real easy for somebody to slip away in a place like this,” he replies with a sense of heavy import threading between every word.

You can’t help but to bark out a mirthless laugh, shaking your head incredulously and pushing away from the doorframe. “You wanna send me away altogether? _Get rid of me!?”_

His gaze flicks back to you quickly. “I want to keep you _safe,”_ he maintains, starting to let that bravado of his seep out, enunciating his words pointedly. “And bein’ stuck with this gang, it ain’t safe no more.”

“I only ever feel safe when I’m with _you,_ Arthur!” Your hackles are up now, and you regret saying those words as soon as they are off your tongue. You realize you are scared to let him see the true depth of your feelings. “But...Jesus Christ, I don’t know, maybe I should just go.” You feel tears pricking at your eyes and you take a big swig from your glass to hide the fact before you spin and disappear through the French doors.

Arthur jolts up in his seat, some of his own whiskey sloshing about with the sudden movement. He knows he should let you go, that it would all be easier this way, that you’ll be better off someday for having forgotten about him. But he is a fool, and what little pride he has is wounded. “Now hold on just a goddamn minute,” he exclaims, slapping the glass down on the little patio table and lurching to his feet. “It ain’t like that!”

_“It ain’t like that,”_ you mutter to yourself sarcastically as you bend down to grab your gun belt and saddlebag. “Goddamn bastard...”

He crosses the room quickly, slaps the palm of his hand against the door frame just before your fingers touch the knob, cutting off your intended exit. “I am tellin’ you to leave because I-“

“Because you _what?_ ‘Cause you made a mistake? ‘Cause I’m not-“

_“Because I care for you!_ Christ’s sakes, we have gotten ourselves into some bad business out here,” he says with an emphatic shake of his head as he hovers there close in front of you with his arm blocking your way. “And I am goddamn terrified that I ain’t gonna be able to protect you! And I know if you leave...you’ll be safe...”

“Yeah,” you mutter, “I’ll be real safe out there on my own.”

“I know you got family back west that’ll take care of you.”

“You don’t know shit about my family!”

“I know you got a sister you write to every chance you get!” he rebuts with more force than he intends.

You pause, eyes widening, leaning back from him ever so slightly. “You _really_ want me to go...”

His mouth ticks from the grimace it has set itself firmly into. Softer now, after a few moments he says, “no, I don’t.” Slowly, tentatively, his hand extends and his knuckles brush the curve of your jaw in an almost overwhelming gesture of tenderness. “But it’s like I said to you; what I want don’t matter-“

“So come with me,” you interject suddenly, eyes searching his, emboldened by his admission. “We can run together. We can figure this out_ together,_ Arthur...”

He closes his eyes, shakes his head and graces you with the saddest smile you think you’ve ever seen. “I can’t,” he replies in barely more than a whisper. “Sweetheart, you know I can’t.”

“Why?” You drop your things back on the floor in favor of reaching up to brush fingers across the stubble that dusts his jaw, leaning up, cradling his face in a sudden burst of desperate emotion. Your lips find his briefly as you feel a tear breach and spill down your cheek. “What about what I want?”

It cuts him to the core to see you so bared and raw; and on his very account, no less. He did not want it to be this way, but it’s a thought that has been pervading every corner of his mind since that night at Six Points and he tells himself it must be for the best. You made him a promise you should be under no obligation to keep; a promise that could easily get you killed. The very thought has given rise to a hollow pain in his chest that seems to pull the very breath from his lungs.

And yet, and yet...he is a fool and can’t help chasing your lips as soon as they’ve parted from his, but when he glances up and sees the sparkle on your cheek it is enough to almost break him completely. “Ah, shit. Don’t...please don’t cry, sweetheart,” he mutters thickly before cradling your face with his own hands. His thumb gently brushes away the tear’s trail as he presses his forehead to yours. “It’s just...you still got a chance to get out of this life...”

“I don’t care-“

“Ain’t gonna let you put yourself in danger for no good reason,” he insists, “and I sure as _hell _ain’t no good reason.”

You wince at his words, unable to stop your trembling lips from pulling down into a grimace of pain at the seemingly eternal depth of his self-loathing. You wish he could see himself the way you see him, even just for the briefest of moments. “You _are_ good, you stupid fool. You’re good to everybody in the gang, to the other girls, to _me;_ you’ve always been good to me, Arthur,” you insist just as emphatically.

Your thumbs smooth over the planes of his cheekbones as you close the gap once more, trying to show rather than explain, brushing your lips against his in another kiss that’s barely there. “You shouldn’t have told me you didn’t want me to go,” you mutter against those lips, “‘cause there ain’t no way in hell I’d leave you now.”

He closes his eyes and exhales a shaky breath. “If anything happens to you, I don’t-I couldn’t-“

“Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to me if I got you,” you pull back and reply quickly, causing him to open his eyes and look at you - _really_ look at you.

He grimaces after a moment, rolling those dazzling blues in a way that borders on exasperation. “Christ, you don’t really believe what you’re sayin’, do you?” he asks as his hands smooth down to grasp at your shoulders. He almost wants to shake you for saying something that pulls so preposterously at his heartstrings.

He takes a step back and starts to turn away when you chase him with a step forward. “I got no reason not to! How many times you saved Bill’s life, or Javier’s, or _Marston’s?_ We gotta look out for _each other-“_

He cuts you off with a mirthless chuckle and a sharp angling of his head, hands dropping to his belt and eyes darkening almost menacingly. “D’you even listen to what I told you-?”

“‘Course I did. But this ain’t about who you _were._ It’s about who you are _now,_ and who _I _am and who _we are.”_

The menace melts away almost as soon as it appears, replaced with a look of strained weariness. His resolve is breaking. He didn’t think it would be this hard. He didn’t believe you really cared enough to _fight_ so hard.

He figured by now you’d have realized how unsatisfactory he is as a man, a lover, a protector. He has spent his life honing entirely different skills. Shooting, breaking and beating are the tools of his bloody trade; his hands forged into deadly weapons, never meant for tenderness or gentle caresses, nor deserving of them. “I am...exactly the same as I’ve always been,” he mutters dully. “Little older, little uglier, probably a little more stupid too, on account of how many times I been punched in the head.”

You exhale a ragged, worn-out sigh and close your eyes. “A week ago. I promised you I wasn’t gonna leave. That was a promise _you _asked me to make.” You finally look up at him and walk closer.

“I wasn’t...wasn’t exactly capable of thinkin’ very straight at the time.” He frowns as you stop just in front of him and suddenly reach up to start unbuttoning his shirt. “What are you doin’...?”

“Gettin’ you outta these wet clothes,” you mutter as the plaid fabric falls open above your nimble fingers. It gives you something to focus on other than the penetrating gaze he has focused on you. “Do you know why I made that promise?”

He clenches his jaw as your fingers brush against his abdomen, tugging the shirt out from where it’s tucked into his pants. “I honestly have no idea,” he mumbles, fists clenching at his sides.

You shake your head and puff out a steadying breath before raising your gaze to meet his. “I made that promise because I love you, Arthur. Because there ain’t much else I _can _promise.”

You avert your eyes once more before you see his reaction, partly out of a sudden blind fear of what you’ve finally admitted. “I can’t promise we’re all gonna be okay. I can’t promise we ain’t gonna get our comeuppance for what we done,” you continue as you peel his gun belt from around his waist and lay it on the bureau. “But I can for _damn sure_ promise that I ain’t gonna leave you to face it all alone. And there’s nothin’ you can say to make me change my mind, so stop trying.”

He watches you very closely. His heart thumps in his chest far harder than he thinks it has any right to. For a moment, he was sure he’d misheard what you said. But there’s no mishearing a thing like that, not when it’s been nigh on a decade since you’ve heard those words spoken truly. He feels his ears heating up and quickly turns away to kick his boots off his feet, stumbling slightly in his haste. His fists flex at his sides anxiously; feels like his tongue is a dead weight in his mouth.

When he finally turns back and faces you he hesitates for only a moment - the amount of time it takes for him to forcibly evict all the ghosts that still haunt him, at least for the duration of the night - before his hand is curling perfectly behind your neck and he is pulling you in close and dipping his head and kissing you like he actually _means_ it.

Your mouth meets his eagerly, still bent on showing him what it is you can’t seem to get across with words alone. Your fingers snake up underneath his open shirt, gently pushing it from his shoulders so that you can touch him as reverently as you do in your girlish daydreams, the way you regretfully never had time for only a week ago.

Arthur shrugs the shirt off the rest of the way before parting from you to catch a breath. He bows his head and looks at his feet in that way he has.

You get to snatch a glimpse of the smallest smile on his lips and it seems to strike a flame in your chest; a slow-burning warmth that licks up the frame of your ribs to eventually consume you. You catch your lip in your teeth, reaching out, a little bolder now, to hook your pointer fingers under his waistband and pull gently. “Outta these. And into that bed,” you nod back towards the palatial piece of furniture.

He can’t help but chuckle incredulously, spreading his hands helplessly at his sides. “Ain’t like I’m gonna get sick, sweetheart.”

“Didn’t say nothin’ about you gettin’ sick. You’re exhausted, Arthur. We both are,” you reply as you walk over to the bed and perch at the edge. “And since you ain’t gonna be escorting me to the train station or onto no boat, well...that means we got time to just...relax. Get some rest, for once,” you venture as you work at pulling off your own boots, trying to sniffle back the rest of your tears silently.

“Yes, my lady,” he acquiesces and strips down to his long johns, which are still mostly dry. Padding over to the bed, he rolls his shoulders before taking a seat beside you. Admittedly, you are absolutely right; he hasn’t had a full night’s sleep since Blackwater. The closest he’s even come to it was a week ago when you agreed to stay the night with him.

He reaches over and scoops your hand up into his own, turns his head to look at you. “I’m gonna make you a promise. No matter what happens, I am gonna do my damndest to keep you safe. I surely don’t know what I did to deserve somethin’ like this, but, for what it’s worth, I...I will try to make it count. I’ll try not to let you down.”

You blink, slightly taken aback by the openness of his vow. A shy little smirk draws up one corner of your mouth and you squeeze his hand. “We look out for each other?”

He nods. “We look out for each other.”

You hide your growing smile against the skin of his shoulder, smelling the lingering odor of wet cotton and sweat, horse and leather. It isn’t exactly pleasant, but it is a stark reminder of _him_ \- his presence, here with you, solidifying the pact you’ve made to each other - and for that essential reason, it is good.

Your hand untangles itself from his to trace up the skin of his chest tenderly, pressing at his sternum, dragging along the plane of his collarbone before you encircle his arm and pull him down to lay beside you on the bed.

He feels the fire stoke in his belly; thinks that maybe, just maybe, you really could be his second chance. He doesn’t know how or why, but with your steadfast resolve it almost makes him certain that the two of you will figure it all out somehow. He knows he does not want to put you through this kind of pain ever again; this stupid game he played as an excuse to try and send you off to greener pastures,_ safer_ pastures.

You will have none of that and it makes him love you all the more, seeing that loyalty, that little bit of the core of himself reflected in you. He knows you love the gang like a family, just as he does. And now he is finally aware that your feelings for him are something more than even that.

He lays on his side, facing you, finally allowing that simple adoration he’s felt for a while now to seep through and spread out. He raises a hand to gently brush some of your damp hair out of your face. “You really mean it...? You ‘n me, I mean?”

You’ve already taken the chance to snuggle in close against him, threaded one of your legs in between his, one hand splayed against the warm skin of his broad chest. You blink and glance up. “Yes.” You pause, trying to best figure out how to explain exactly what you’re feeling. “You got somethin’ inside of you Arthur, somethin’ real and good. I know it’s hard for you to see it, but I’m askin’ you to trust me when I tell you it’s there. I see it all the time. With Jack, with the girls, with the way you fight so hard for all of us.”

His face is tanned and weather-beaten, bearing many scars and the undeniable evidence of a nose broken one too many times; but it is also warm and kind, when he lets it be, and right now is one of those times. It is a sight to behold, when Arthur finally loosens those particular reins and lets himself simply _be_. You think you can see a bit of a shine in his eyes, but it must only be the light reflecting in from the street lamps.

His tongue sticks out briefly to wet his lips as he averts his gaze; he looks over your shoulder because he is rather afraid that if he keeps focusing on the overwhelming sincerity written all over your face and deep in your eyes, it might actually break him. He doesn’t know what to do with a heart that feels so full.

So he looks out through the big French doors instead, just happens to catch sight of the moon; big and yellow and clipped in half by the silhouette of a smokestack. A smile ticks up one corner of his mouth; though he is used to living in the light of the sun, he’s starting to think the moon may just be his lucky constellation after all. You’ll figure it all out. You’ll find the money Dutch needs to get the gang well and truly out of dodge. And you’ll do it together.

“Thank you,” he mutters thickly as his eyes shift back to you. He curls a hand up to brush knuckles against your chin, tracing his thumb feather-light across your bottom lip, admiring, absorbing every detail he possibly can for later replication in the pages of his journal; a memory he can always keep.

You can’t help a tender smile, pressing in to kiss him once more, saving him the awkwardness of having to use any more words. You know what he is trying to say.


	4. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, this is super sappy and self-indulgent <3 <3

You’re caged in, pressed to the mattress of a hotel bed on the second floor of the Strawberry Welcome Center. You’d thought St. Denis was nice, but he hated it; felt too caged in himself, there.

He claimed the city moved too fast for him, but you know better. He is a man all too vigilant, and wherever he ends up he likes having a clear escape route, for obvious reasons; St. Denis was clogged and cluttered with high walls and trolleys and far too many people, and it all made him far too uncomfortable.

So instead you’ve landed here, in the rustic and ostentatious heart of the middle of nowhere, West Elizabeth, just as soon as he could beg another excuse to get out of camp for a few days. Landed here with a suddenly very desperate outlaw on top of you.

“Ain’t gonna lie,” he mutters almost drunkenly from somewhere in the vicinity of where your neck meets your ear, “been thinkin’ about this - ‘bout you - all damn day…” 

You catch your lip in your teeth as his hands roam, smoothing over the thick fabric of the skirt at your hips to worm their way in between the bed and the small of your back._ “Mr. Morgan,”_ you manage to chide him in a tone not dissimilar to old Susan Grimshaw, “how positively tawdry.”

His touch is still polite, though you’ve had each other once already, now; but that night at Six Points feels more like a fever dream. You didn’t have the time to let yourselves get properly acquainted. It was all fast and desperate and wildly unorthodox. He stops suddenly now, though, raising his head from its favored spot in the crook of your neck, worry etched into every crease of his face.

You reach up and take his stubbled cheeks in your hands. “I like it,” you assure, pushing yourself upwards just enough to kiss his lips quickly.

The worry melts away almost instantly. He is getting more comfortable with this, with you. Now that he knows you have no desire to run off on him, even if it could very well mean the cost of your safety, it’s filled him with a somewhat more stable sense of…something. 

Hope? Belonging? _Home?_

He chases your lips, not bothering to try and put words to feelings, too full of renewed confidence. “M’serious.” A kiss. “Watchin’ you sway in that saddle all day,” he pauses for another kiss, stubble grazing your cheek. “I been sweatin’ like a damn sinner in church…”

You purse your lips, trying poorly to hide the grin that threatens to break as you swat at his ribs with a firm hand. _“Arthur!”_

It comes out a little breathless and high-pitched. He has this ability to take you off guard sometimes. It’s a welcome surprise, when his dry wit shows up unabashed.

He smirks at your good humor, settling himself on an elbow and smoothing his other hand back up over your hip before taking a fistful of your skirt and pulling at it, playful and needy. It makes your heart swell.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says with a chuckle, looking down, trying to hide his smirk. “But it’s true, I’m,” he sucks in a deep breath, leans in again as if he just _can’t_ stay away. “I am a simple fool, ‘n you are some kinda witch woman-“

_“Witch_ woman?”

“-Puttin’ me under your spell,” he finishes low, lips grazing against the curve of your jaw. It sends a shiver up through you.

You inhale sharply as his fingers find their way up under the hem of your skirt, bunching the fabric up so that he can feel more of you, skin to skin. His hand stops and rests at a respectful distance though, just above your knee. He may have been thinking dirty thoughts all day, but he is always respectful in deed.

You cradle his face, trace a thumb over the scars on his chin, tuck an errant tuft of golden brown hair behind his ear. You can’t stifle a laugh at his words, not when you’ve been under _his_ spell for so damn long. You still can’t believe you’re here, like this, with him.

You reach out and press your hand over his, wordlessly guiding him further to where you’d _both_ like him to be. It’s his turn for a sharp inhale as his fingers smooth along the inside of your thigh.

You can feel his eagerness where his hips are fitted against your other leg and it spurs on the heavy, hollow ache that’s developed in the pit of your stomach.

“Touch me.” Your hand guides his further, until it becomes well and truly hampered by the bloomers that rest traitorously between you.

He rumbles somewhere deep in his chest, leaning down once more to accept your invitation with another kiss. He reaches even further and hooks his fingers over the waistband of your undergarments, tugging them downwards.

You raise your hips to help him in the effort, hooking an arm around his neck. Your tongue traces along the curve of his lip.

He presses his hips into you, seeking friction there while his hand skims back to the apex of your legs, still eager to follow your direction. For the roughness of his fingers, his touch is cautious, bordering on timid.

But it is enough. It sends a jolt of electricity through you and you don’t even try to bite back a pleasurable sigh. You do bite your lip and hum in encouragement though, one of your hands slipping up to start loosening the buttons of his shirt.

He wets his lips and bows his head once more, still trying to hide that boyish smirk. His fingers slide through the slick and delicate cleft of your skin and you mewl low in response.

“How’m I doin? Talk to me, sweetheart,” he mutters between love-bites. “Whatever you want…you got all of me…”

He makes it sound like the most sincere promise he’s ever made in his life.

“My God, Arthur,” you mumble, muffled, as you’ve thrown a hand across your face to hide your sudden shyness. “Up, just a little bit, please-“

“Here?”

“Little more,” you pant and curl one leg up to give him easier access.

He shifts to obey, and when his fingers find the blessed bud of your arousal you let him know by bucking your hips unceremoniously. It all feels good, his lips and hands on you, and the solid weight of him slotted against you as if it’s the only position he should ever occupy; but this achingly slow exploration he’s started is also a bit maddening.

He chuckles roughly at the way you arch your back, taking it as a good sign. “That nice…?”

You nod, slipping your hand up under his open shirt to feel him. He radiates heat, and it’s heavenly out here at the foot of the mountains; back in St. Denis, all was fetid and humid and even just trying to sleep next to one another was a labor of love.

It is nice to know that he is also getting to be more comfortable with your affections; he doesn’t so much as flinch when you touch him. You know much more of what he fears, understand his reticence much better now, and are prepared to meet it as slowly and with as much tenderness as he requires. 

Slow does not seem to be the plan today, however, and you adapt.

Finished with his buttons, you grab him by one suspender and pull him back for another kiss, canting your hips once more as he settles into something like a rhythm. Though his methods are a bit crude, his eagerness to please has you eternally forgiving his ignorance, even as he apologizes for it; it was self-imposed, after all, and not without reason.

“Mm - a little faster-“

“Yeah?” he asks hoarsely even as he obeys, using his free hand to pluck the pins from your hair, watching greedily as it cascades.

“Oh, _yes.”_ You squirm, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment. The moths, those old friends, beat incessantly against your ribs, clamoring to the beat of your heart. Clamoring to the beat of _his_ heart, maybe, so near to your own.

Your hand skims up over his collar to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair and pulling. You can be needy too.

He groans low in response, satisfied that his work is acceptable. His hips have started a rhythm to match his fingers, and it is a positively naughty feeling, knowing you are the cause of such delicious unrest.

You blindly reach down and search for him through the coarse fabric of his trousers, intending that you should not be the only one experiencing these earthly delights, but he tut-tuts, shaking his head to dissuade you. “Not yet. Just—let me make it up to you—for last time…”

“What are you talkin’ abo-_out!?”_ You squeak. You don’t mean to, feel your face flushing in embarrassment because of it, but he chose that exact moment to slide a finger inside you. It’s hard to focus on anything other than that. You can’t seem to puzzle out what exactly he feels he needs to make up for.

He hums through a hungry smile, drags his nose over your ear; you both had a bath as soon as you arrived, and he swears the scent of the oil you’d used in your hair could kill him and he’d die happily.

“Wasn’t exactly how I wanted our first time to be,” he mutters thickly, enraptured by every little twitch in your expression.

“Didn’t think there was ever gonna _be_ a first time,” you say with a shuddering sigh. “Kinda took me by surprise.” You curl your toes and tense at his touch, knocking your knees together, pinning his wrist loosely between your thighs.

“That’s what I mean.” He settles up on his elbow once more, readjusting so that he can ease another finger in beside the first. He smirks real quick when you groan and yank at his hair again, rougher this time. “Shouldn’t have been a damn _surprise_. Should’ve been…somethin’ special. I didn’t—never meant to make you think I didn’t care, or-“

Your throaty laugh makes him cut his own words short, confusion and a hint of that earlier worry ghosting across his features. You shake your head, reaching up to cradle his cheek in your palm. “You are _so_ good at actin’ all big ‘n bad ‘n tough…but you aren’t. You might be the sweetest man I ever met,” you reply with no small amount of awe, feeling dewy and kind of starry-eyed.

His face heats up. He cuts his gaze away, sheepish. “Naw, c’mon, I certainly ain’t-“

“Shh,” you chide softly, rubbing your legs together again and shivering. You tap his cheek, the smallest reprimand; he already knows you don’t approve of the way he talks about himself. A change of subject might be for the best.

You offer him a small and wicked smile, dropping that hand to his shoulder. “So…you just couldn’t help watchin’ me while I was ridin’, _huh_, cowboy?”

He blinks a bit owlishly; you can practically hear his brain switching gears, sluggish in the wake of his amorousness.

Before he gets the chance to respond, you’ve pushed yourself up and pushed him down against the bed with that hand on his shoulder. He is forced to move his own hand when you swing your leg over his hips and straddle him, your skirts settling down to pool over his midsection.

He lets out a sinful breath, eyes squeezing shut momentarily when your weight settles against the aching arousal in his trousers. He can feel sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.

“How’d you like to watch me ridin’ _you?”_ You lean down, planting your palms against his broad chest.

He exhales an even heavier breath. In the space of just a second you think you can see a flurry of emotions passing behind those ocean eyes of his, until they darken and sparkle with a hunger you’ve never seen. Then they narrow, almost predatory. Wordlessly he raises the hand that had been pleasuring you moments before.

You sense what he wants. It sends a sinful jolt of desire through you. You open your mouth and wrap your lips around his fingers, looking down at him with hooded eyes. Your tongue swipes their length and you taste yourself on him.

His eyes roll up to the ceiling and his jaw clenches. _“Shit…”_

You smile around his fingers and roll your your hips against him. It’s nice, having this kind of freedom; the distinct lack of any nosy camp members emboldens the both of you to explore, to take your time.

His free hand smooths up your thigh, angling to continue its way up your waist, up over your ribs, trailing fingertips across your collarbone.

You suck and run your tongue up his fingers once more before pulling your mouth away, a silvery strand of saliva connecting the both of you for a brief moment before it breaks.

And then you’re shimmying down to straddle his thighs, working to unbutton him even as he’s pulling his suspenders from his shoulders. There is a rush, suddenly, to be skin to skin, to be bared, to be vulnerable.

You straighten up on your knees to work at the buttons on your skirt. _Buttons, always so many goddamn buttons._

Arthur sits himself up, kisses you hungrily while he fumbles to kick his pants off beneath you.

When the last button finally pops through the last eyelet his hands are there at your hips in a flash to help you remove the cumbersome garment, fingers kneading into the fabric as he tugs it down over your thighs.

First one leg carefully but hastily comes free, and then the other, and then the skirt flies across the room to catch haphazardly on the washstand that sits against the wall. Your blouse follows soon after.

He leans back against the headboard and looks up at you, now wearing nothing but a thin chemise and breathing hard, chest rising and falling in a rhythm he swears could hypnotize him. His fingers itch to draw you like this, but all he can do is try to file the memory away for later perusal.

His hands are calloused and warm. They trail up and down your sides as your gaze lowers to admire him. He squeezes suddenly and tries to pull you closer and you cannot help but obey. You lean down and kiss him again, slow and tender, before trailing your lips down.

One kiss to that scar on his chin. Another to the dip at the base of his throat. One more in the center of his chest, and he swears he never knew he’d feel such love in the simplest of acts. It is enough to make the breath catch in his throat.

You move lower, scooting down the length of his legs and just out of his reach, trailing your hands down over his chest. Your breasts brush against the tops of his thighs and he can do nothing but clench his fists. He _wants_ to do much more.

Abigail had mentioned something to you one night when the two of you and Karen had been drunk and gossiping about womanly things. Karen agreed with her wholeheartedly that men went wild for it. You are brave now, and the idea flits across the front of your mind like a sparrow.

Your eyes flit up to meet his before they lower to your twitching prize, and before Arthur can ask what the hell it is you think you’re doing, his cock is suddenly enveloped in the silky warmth of your mouth.

A sharp grunt escapes him and his eyes roll before they finally settle back on you, wide and full of utter awe and bewilderment. _“Christ-“_

He cuts himself off with a groan as your hand wraps firmly around the base and you bob your head; once and then twice, just to gauge the reaction as your gaze rises to meet his again.

He pants, chest rising and falling erratically. His hands twitch with unspent energy until finally one of them moves to caress your cheek, then up further to brush a few errant tendrils of hair from your forehead. It’s hasty but tender, and you feel your heart swell yet again.

Your mouth leaves him for a moment, little crows’ feet crinkling at the corners of your eyes as you give him a smile. “How’m I doin…?”

A hoarse and incredulous chuckle bubbles out of him and he shakes his head, feeling breathless. “You are doin’—doin’ _just fine,”_ he finally replies in a honey-thick mumble as you take him back into your mouth and he lets his head drop back against the headboard.

You hum pleasantly and feel him tremble beneath you at the sensation. It makes you feel a little less self-conscious knowing this is most likely the first time anyone’s ever done this for him.

He is a big boy in just about every way, so you do your best to accommodate without accidentally choking. Judging by his little groans and curses and the hand still absently smoothing back the hair on your head, you determine that your work is indeed acceptable.

All you can think of is that night back at Six Points, though. The memory of him, hot and heavy against you and then_ in_ you. Those big hands gripping your ass, pulling you close even as he threatened to break that damn table beneath you with the force of his desire finally unleashed. You have to close your eyes briefly as the memory makes that hollow ache swell.

He puffs out heavy breaths, one hand clawing into the duvet. His hips buck, though he’s trying hard to hold himself back. It feels amazing, but he wants _more;_ he wants to be able to hold you and kiss you and pull you goddamn close and this position allows for none of those things.

“Sweetheart, I—“ He huffs out a breath, leans up on one elbow, swallows thickly. “C’mere.” 

He crooks a finger as you raise your head to give him a questioning look. A brief nod back toward the headboard precedes a pleading gaze that plucks at every one of your heartstrings. “C’mon. Get back up here.”

His hands immediately find your hips again when you crawl back up and nuzzle yourself down against him, pressing his cock to his stomach and delivering delicious friction to the both of you.

His jaw clenches. _“Christ,_ woman, this ain’t nothin’ short of _torture-“ _

You grin as you lean forward and smother his words with a kiss, lapping at his bottom lip and nipping it with your teeth. _“You_ never answered my question, cowboy…”

He lets his eyes roll. “Pardon me, m’lady. Thought it was rhetorical,” he growls out the syllables against your lips, squeezing at your flesh, pulling you down while he grinds his hips up against you greedily.

“Mmn—_s-shit,”_ you relent with a hiss and a stutter and suck in a sharp breath at the sensation. You clutch at his biceps before straightening up, freeing his length from where it’s been pinned between you.

Hovering over him, you take only as much time as you need to line up, relinquishing one hand to help guide him to where he needs to be. And then you sink.

You both inhale at the same time. Your hands move to cradle his face. You brace yourself on your knees and roll your hips downward, taking him completely.

His eyelids flutter. He swallows back a groan, smooths his palms up the curve of your back. His eyes meet yours as you press your forehead to his, breaths mingling. There is a moment that hangs precariously in the balance between you.

He is the first to break it. The smallest scoff escapes from between his lips as his eyes finally cut away from you, sheepish under such scrutiny in his moments of vulnerability. “Lookin’ at me like I hung the damn moon in the sky,” he mutters tremulously, as if he doesn’t believe it.

“So far as I’m concerned, maybe you _did.”_ You kiss him again, willing him to believe it.

And then you move. Slowly at first, feeling his hands tighten on you, feeling the delicious, slick pull down where the two of you are joined.

That hollow ache deep within you isn’t so hollow anymore. It’s full of the sensation of _him_, encompassing all your senses; the smell of tobacco, soap and fresh sweat, the sound of his honeyed voice and fitful breath, the taste of him lingering on your tongue.

The way he’s sat back against the headboard provides perfectly for him to encircle you in his arms, assisting your movements even as he buries his face into your collar. He groans; can’t help it, not with the way you’re rocking against him like waves lapping hungrily at the shore.

He feels himself eroding under that pressure, all sense scattered to the farthest reaches. Just like back at Six Points, he is powerless in the wake of you. You’ve taken all his reason and replaced it with lofty dreams and tender thoughts that sit traitorously at the tip of his tongue.

He’s found himself dreaming more of _what could be_ as of late, instead of the nightmare of _what’s been_ that usually plagues him. Everything that was torn from him, everything he willingly gave up, every life he’s snuffed away; it’s all paling, falling into shadow, no comparison to your radiance.

One of your palms slaps against the headboard behind his ear. The sound is enough to startle him out of the ecstatic haze he’s slipped into.

His jaw clenches. He presses his lips to the bare skin just above the neckline of your chemise, muttering and wishing for all the world he could keep you like this forever, just on the brink of bliss. “Jesus Christ, you’re so goddamn beautiful, I don’t—got no _idea_—no goddamn _clue _why you’re here wit’ me-“

You brace yourself with that hand against the headboard, using the other to reach up and smooth the matted hair from his forehead. “Because _I love you,_ Arthur Morgan. You’re my _best friend_, my _protector,_ the _sun_ and the _moon_ and all the _goddamn_ stars in the sky,” you mutter in a rush of overprotective emotion. “Ain’t no place else I’d rather be.”

Your hips stutter against him. “God—“ A sharp inhale fills your lungs. Your back arches. Your head rolls, gaze rising to the ornamental chandelier that hangs from the ceiling, constructed entirely of a complex spiderweb of stag antlers.

“Don’t stop-“

The sound of him begging hoarsely spurs you on. “Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” you reply as your hand slides down to clutch at the back of his neck.

_“Christ.”_ A groan.

_“Oh, God.”_ A cry.

“Sweetheart, I’m—_s-shit-“_

You whine. Your orgasm sweeps over you in a powerful wave just before you pull yourself off of him. Everything sounds tinny and far away for a few seconds, though you barely notice; you’re too entranced with the way his brows furrow and the muscles in his jaw work as you quickly take him back into your hand.

It only takes two strokes, up and down, before he grunts and shudders and spends himself over your fingers and partway up his abdomen, muscles there rising and falling in time with his heavy breath.

_“Christ.”_ His head falls back against the headboard once more. He closes his eyes, sluggish. After a beat they fly open and he practically lunges forward. “Shit, m’sorry sweetheart, lemme just-“

“Sh.” You cut him off with a shake of your head and show him a bit of an admonishing smile, wordlessly warning him to stay the hell put. You clamber from the bed and cross the room to find a towel, sauntering just a bit to give him something to look at. You pull your skirt from the washstand to find some hand towels hidden underneath.

His eyes don’t leave you for a second as you make your way back, running the terry cloth languidly across your hand. He wets his lips, leans forward to take the towel from you as you approach.

You crawl onto the bed and drape yourself down beside him, admiring the way the late afternoon light paints the sheen on his skin in golden hues. A smile blooms as you chew your lip, spent and content and still eternally determined to show him how much he is loved.

The towel flies over you and across the room a minute later, landing squarely upon his discarded hat. He groans in disgruntlement and covers his face with a hand.

You glance back and snort when you see what’s become of the unfortunate accessory. Your eyes cut back to him and you smirk when you see a goofy, embarrassed sort of smile peeking out from behind his hand.

“Your aim’s just too good, cowboy.”

You both break out into low chuckles. His hand drops back to the bed and he shakes his head, closes his eyes, smiles. Then he swallows. Peeks one eye open to glance at you. “I love you,” he mumbles softly.

You pause in the middle of propping yourself up on an elbow. This is the first time he’s said those words.

“You, uh,” he clears his throat briefly, “you really mean all them things?”

“I do.”

He hums and extends an arm to accommodate as you shuffle in close, tucking yourself in beside his chest.

“Don’t worry. Ain’t gonna get tired of reminding you of it, neither.” You feel him press his lips to the crown of your head and smile against his skin.

There is silence for a few moments.

“What about your hat…?”

“Ehh, I’ll deal with it later,” he replies sleepily, that arm curling up around your shoulder to keep you close. He is determined not to take these moments for granted. He wouldn’t trade them for the sun or the moon or all the stars that hang up in the sky.


End file.
